It's Not Like Anything
by UndercoverMoffat
Summary: A 2014!AU. Sam says yes to The Devil, and Castiel just happens to be Dean's only outlet to the pain. "We're in the middle of the friggin' Apocalypse, Cass, and you're asking me if I'm okay?" Song!Fic to Saving Abel's Addicted.


**It's Not Like Anything  
By HeavensRebel  
Setting: I wrote a 2014!AU that I hate – honestly, it sucks demon balls – but in it I wrote this paragraph that I actually rather like, and so this was born from it.  
Summary: A 2014!AU. Sam says yes to The Devil, and Castiel just happens to be Dean's only outlet to the pain. Song!Fic to Saving Abel's Addicted.  
Disclaimer: I only watch the bees.**

_Dean harbored way more emotion than Cass, always, even if it was never expressed outwardly – but then Sam said yes.  
The nights following that were long and brutal and every part of him had nail bites and teeth marks and bruises in the shape of his human's fingers that never faded, not even if he tried to will them away. At first he didn't mind, because he loved Dean with all his Grace.  
But soon, Croatoan took over and those brutal nights started happening all the time, everywhere – in the back of the Impala, in the shower, against a wall in an alley – and Castiel realized that he was merely a drug. Everything about him, Dean relied heavily upon in ways far worse than merely _addiction _but it was not because Dean loved him._

_He'd pretend to, with his chaste kisses and false promises of "You and I? One day, we're gonna live some normal, apple-pie life", but the fallen angel knew better.  
He never stopped though – because every fiber of his being was addicted too._

_~False Smiles and Chaste Kisses, by HeavensRebel _

[I'M SO ADDICTED TO, ALL THE THINGS YOU DO, WHEN YOU'RE GOING DOWN ON ME, IN BETWEEN THE SHEETS]

The hotel doesn't have any vacancies, but that doesn't seem to matter.

Castiel can see it in every line of Dean's face – all the weariness and pain and broken memories – but he knows better than to say anything.

"There's a river," Dean tells him, "Just down there. We can wash off."

Cass had already forgotten they're soaked in blood.

"Of course, Dean." He climbs out of the car first, shutting the door calmly and slowly behind him, eyes closed and whispering a prayer.

Dean either doesn't notice, or could give a rat's ass, and shrugs his clothes off, piece by piece, as he heads downhill without a glance. Cass realizes in that moment, with the half-moon throwing shadows all across Dean's back, that his hunter's so _unhealthy_ – pale, sweat from exhaustion. The hunt hadn't been easy, but Dean has withstood far worse, Cass knows.

And that frightens him.

[ALL THE SOUNDS YOU MAKE, WITH EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE, IT'S NOT LIKE ANYTHING WHEN YOU'RE LOVING ME]

By the time Cass reaches the river, Dean is already in, waist-deep, pouring water over his shoulder blades with cupped hands. The fallen angel does not remove his eyes from the beauty of it (and damn it is _so damn beautiful_, so beautiful that ir hurts) as he pulls his tattered trench coat off, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt – no tie, because he'd lost it weeks ago. His skin is slapped with wind, harsh and demanding, so he hurries in getting undressed and rushes into the equally frigid water.

Dean's eyes are shut when Cass reaches him, his skin unmarked by anything besides the usual freckles-and-scars mixture. (Cass' own hand print has forever since faded into utter oblivion.)

"Water's cold," Dean comments, voice void of absolutely _everything_.

"I was already made aware of this," Cass responds, rubbing the blood off his flesh. More of it is is than he cares to admit – angels don't bleed. At least they aren't supposed to. Some of it though is Dean's, from when he had to drag him out of the burning warehouse, and he sighs as it disappeared in a rivulet of pink into the blackish murk he''s standing in.

After another moment, Dean asks, "You done?" He peers at Cass with eyes flatter than the plains of Kansas.

Cass simply gives an affirmative nod and they walk back to the shore together, Dean's hand barely brushing his the entire time.

[LETS TAKE IT SLOW, SO AS FOR YOU WELL YOU KNOW WHERE TO GO, I WANT TO TAKE MY LOVE AND HATE YOU TILL THE END]

They don't bother pulling everything back on, because they both there would be no point, not with all the blood and the fact they're going to be squished together in the back of the Impala.

That's exactly how they end up – in the back of said car, an entanglement of limbs and nightmares. They don't speak, they don't have to, as Dean encircles his angel in his arms and cries silently into his hair. Somewhere between a choked sob and a gasp, Cass kisses him, hands on his neck, kisses him hard and deep and saying without words _it's okay, Dean, I'm right here._

He knows Dean will take advantage of this – he does too, swiftly, already forceful in the way his mouth moves against Cass'. Dean's hands pull away clothing, Cass reciprocating on Dean's, and suddenly Cass is reminded of Anna.

He pulls away, eyes focusing on the ceiling as his hunter kisses down his neck, pausing at his throat, his collar bone, hands roaming, fingertips digging into his waist.

Castiel's own hands grip the back of Dean's neck, tightening sporadically with each touch of his lips, each stray pinch.

(And through all of this, Dean bites his own lip hard, drawing blood, to remind him that this is Cass and damn it, he can't take everything out on him.)

[IT'S NOT LIKE YOU TO TURN AWAY, FROM ALL THE BULLSHIT I CAN'T TAKE, IT'S NOT LIKE ME TO WALK AWAY]

Cass isn't sure how they get from desperate kisses and painful touches to full on thrusts that hurt just as damn bad against the sweat-soaked upholstery of the backseat. He's aware that his head is thrown back, and he's gasping in a totally pathetic way, but with Dean moaning his name, long and drawn out, on top of him, he doesn't really care. Dean's hands are at his shoulders now, nails digging deep enough to draw little crescent moons of blood.

"Dean," Cass whispers when it's all over and Dean's done with him.

It takes another moment of gasped breath, but eventually Dean answers, "Yeah?"

He's almost afraid to ask. "Are you alright?"

Dean doesn't really surprise him anymore – after all, they've been together just long enough for Cass to be able to read each pattern of his behavior – but in that moment he does.

Dean laughs.

A deep bellowing, tear-welling laugh that Cass hasn't heard in _years_, and it makes him smile. And for a minute, he can pretend.

"We're in the middle of the friggin' Apocalypse, Cass, and you're asking me if I'm okay?"

But then the illusion shatters.

[I KNOW WHEN IT'S GETTING ROUGH, ALL THE TIMES WE SPEND, WHEN WE TRY TO MAKE THIS LOVE SOMETHING BETTER THAN JUST MAKING LOVE AGAIN]


End file.
